


Safe

by ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 05:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12204372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild/pseuds/ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild
Summary: What if 'Get Carter' wasn't the first time Reese saved Joss? What if he'd saved her years before in a dingy motel in Mexico? And, it'd been the incident that made her leave her husband. Or, the fic in which the author presents an idea of how Reese and Carter could have "met" before they actually did.





	Safe

  
A bottle of cheap tequila, swirls of cigarette smoke between lips, and the flick of ash into a styrofoam cup - it's what Paul Carter brings on his fourth anniversary vacation with Jocelyn, and it's _not_ what she had in mind.

It's a cheap hotel with a name that vaguely implies something pornographic in nature. The logo is abhorrently trashy; a distinctively feminine figure, clad in some skimpy red number, with ample bosom and butt on display. She has no problem with women dressing however they please but she does take issue with cheap drunks making a profit off of the provocative imagery.

And, it's not the Cabo San Lucas paradise she had in mind.

"I gave you the money for Cabo," her nose wrinkles at the gross urine stench clinging to tacky curtains - the same fabric that is stained with things, she'd rather not identify. "Not whatever this is.

"It's the best I could do." a long swig of tequila - she hopes the shit goes straight to his liver, as awful as that sounds - and a drag of burning tobacco follow what she knows is a lie.

"I did _not_ scrimp and save all damn year to leave my son with a friend for this." Joss makes a vague motion to the curtains, "Not for piss-stained curtains in the same motel where they probably shoot pornography."

"Calm down." he sprawls on the bed; a grimy looking twin with a comforter straight from the eighties, complete with semen stains and cigarette burns.

Jocelyn rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. "Because that works."

"It's not my fault you don't make enough." Paul complains, pouring another shot and a half of tequila in his mouth.

"I do the best I can!" she argues, tears already forming in her dark eyes. "But, with Taylor and not having a babysitter, I can't work anymore than it takes to keep us fed and a roof over our heads."

Something about the words don't quite mesh well with the heat of alcohol and it sort of slithers into his head like a predator looking for a feed, the rage does. Actually, it's a combination of things. Paul already feels like a failure for not being stable enough to provide more for his family, and now, here she is complaining that she does all she can - which somewhere, in the part of his brain not drowning in alcohol, he knows - and it sends him flying.

"You _bitch_!"

The deep end isn't depression for everyone, nor is it the sort of madness that might require an individual to be institutionalized. For some, it's rage. It's the sort of rage that comes with being chewed up and spit out by every branch of government, by feeling useless, and undeserving of the beautiful wife and son you've been blessed with. It's also the dangerous sort of drunken anger that nearly kills Jocelyn.

Paul's fingers are strong and thick wrapped around her neck, squeezing, shaking until she's wheezing, coughing for air, unable to pull in enough oxygen to stay conscious. His drunken haze doesn't allow him to see the tears pouring down her face or her eyes rolling back in her head or even the blue tint to her mouth.

And, it deafens them both to the explosive crack of the door splintering off of the hinges. It isn't until she's going limp against the wall, unconsciousness blurring her vision, that she realizes someone heard and came to her rescue, ripping her violently drunk husband off of her before he caused her untimely death.

"I bet you're wondering how I knew you were killing your wife." the voice isn't loud but it doesn't have to be, it's low, lethal, and even if Paul won't remember exactly what's being said, he might remember the way it's said. Especially with the tall stranger pinning him to the opposite wall so he has no choice but to listen."The walls are thin. When you called her a bitch, I knew things weren't going to work out in her favor. I heard her hit the wall and knew I had to do something."

"Jocelyn is my wife!" Paul roars at the stranger.

"That doesn't give you the right to kill her!" he presses a little harder, watching the man's eyes widen. Paul isn't struggling to breathe, yet, but it's not quite as easy as it should be. "If you know what's good for you, you'll let your wife leave and you won't follow."

"What?"

"There's a vacant room, a couple doors down, I suggest you take it." his voice is softer, now, but still dangerous. "And, while your wife goes home, you use the time to sober up and sort yourself out. Violence in a marriage comes with a cost." he spares a glance over his shoulder at the half-conscious woman slumped on the floor, watching them with heavy eyes. "And, it's a price she shouldn't have to pay."

"Fine! I'll leave!" Paul growls angrily, "Just give me my shit and I'll leave the bitch to do whatever she wants! She does anyway!"

Paul shuffles out, followed by the stranger's lethal stare, but not before gathering his liquor and cigarettes and making absolutely sure to shatter the already cracked lamp on his way out. When he's gone, and the room is empty enough for the stranger's liking, he pulls some cash out of his pocket and kneels down next to Jocelyn, pressing it into her hand.

"This should get you home, okay?" a gentle hand brushes her hair away from her face, tenderly stroking the side of her head. "Don't stay with him, sweetheart. You deserve better."

The stranger never offers his name or any way to contact him should she want to pay him back, just disappears in a blur of denim and black cotton. When she's able, she uses the cash to catch the next flight back to New York, to her son and to the divorce papers she's been putting off signing in hopes of saving her marriage.

It'd be over a decade before John Reese would come into her life, all blue eyes and a suit, and calling her Joss in that soft, rasping voice. And, the pieces would fall into place; he'd saved her life long before they even knew each other. The confrontation to follow would nearly end them for reasons neither of them can clearly state but it's something to do with John's secrecy and Carter's stubborn determination, but they work it out.

And, no, John Reese never does get his money back.


End file.
